“Come in,” Abby said, stepping aside. “My kitchen’s a mess, but the oven works.”
Abby wasn’t cooking for anyone in particular. That was the lie she told herself as she diced onions with military precision. She was cooking because the alternative was sitting alone in the living room, scrolling through photos of friends’ engagement announcements, feeling the sharp little pinprick of a life she hadn’t quite figured out how to want—until she realized she did want it. Just not with him. abby winters kitchen
The timer dinged. Clara pulled out a pie that was golden and imperfect, its lattice crust slightly lopsided but proud. She set it on the island to cool. “Come in,” Abby said, stepping aside